


Tango de Venezuela

by Moire (AlessNox)



Series: The Tangoverse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ambition, Backstory, Brothers, Dancing, Family Issues, Fans, Gen, History, Love, Ministry, Politics, Squabbling, Tango, Travel, a list, dance, scotch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-20 11:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6003346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlessNox/pseuds/Moire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel to Tango.</p><p>Mycroft doesn't realize that doing a favor for his little brother will land them both in a foreign country in the aftermath of a revolution.</p><p>based on another video<br/>Tango bajo la lluvia<br/>(http://youtu.be/-irzqZ5DiPQ)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mr. Undersecretary

With a measured step, Mycroft Holmes strode out onto the stage. The pendulum-like swing of his hand, the click of his perfectly shined black brogues commanding the attention of all as he paused, staring out over the heads of the people in the crowded theater.

Though barely twenty-four years old, he already had an imposing presence. The room fell into silence as he reached into his patterned waistcoat to pull out his pocketwatch only to look up sharply at the sound of a hastily-quieted cough.

He flipped the watch open, gazed at the time, then replaced it, surreptitiously slipping a strap across the top so that it would not fly out later. He straightened his back and strode to the edge of the stage. The spotlight shimmering off of his silken black suit as he looked out into the darkness.

At the sound of a sigh from the crowd, Mycroft turned to face Sherlock who was crouched down in a lunge. His head held low, his left hand high behind his back. His dramatic slide onto stage had captured the attention of the crowd, as did his tightly-fitted black suit and slicked-back hair.

He raised his head revealing the wine-red shirt that he wore buttoned low, its color perfectly matching Mycroft's tie and pocket square. The music started, and Sherlock straightened to gaze at Mycroft, who stared back, hands in pockets. Then Mycroft held out his hand and Sherlock rushed toward him, flinging himself into his arms, the momentum spinning them around three times before Mycroft lowered him into a dramatic dip just as the trumpets began to blare. The tango had begun.

Mycroft Holmes had been an exceptionally talented youth. Top of his class at Public School. A certified genius, but with social skills and wit. He could play Piano and Cello. Speak languages fluently after the briefest of studies. And in ballroom dance, he had been a champion.

But once he had entered University, which had happened earlier for him than most, he had put aside childish pursuits and focused on his future career in the British Civil Service. So it was an anomaly, a rare favor for his only brother that had led him to be on the stage today.

The waltz was his true speciality. He had the posture for it. The stiff back, the arrogance, the grace that allowed him to sail around the floor as if he were standing still and the world was turning around him. He was weaker at the Latin dances. His hips didn't naturally shake with the beat, but his exquisite timing and the showiness of his partners usually made up for the loss.

Today, he let his back stay stiff. It was Sherlock who bent like a willow, taking the ladies part and showing how he could dance it so much better than they could. Mycroft strode forward, and Sherlock walked backward matching him step for step. He flicked his legs through and around Mycroft's knee, and then kicked his foot back arching his back in an swooping curve. They strode across the stage, and he kicked forward, so high that his foot rose above both of their heads. When Mycroft grabbed his waist to spin him, Sherlock held his foot in his hand in a showy twirl that made him look like an ice dancer. When Mycroft lifted him over his head, Sherlock spread his wings like a swan in flight. 

Sherlock was at that perfect age where his height gave him presence while his youth made him limber. He lifted his leg, and Mycroft pressed it up into a standing split. Then he braced his foot against the one that Sherlock was standing on and leaned back as they clasped hands, so that between them they made the shape of a bow, Sherlock's foot the arrow pointing at the sky. Then they came back together, and continued their progress across the stage.

Mycroft looked down at his brother, and wondered at the change in the boy who had transformed in only a few years from an awkward victim of puberty to this graceful and talented teen, too good for the others in his small dance school. Despite years away from the dance, Mycroft had made an exception and become his partner so that others could see his brother as he was: A wonder, a jewel, a diamond that must be polished to show its beauty. Now everyone could see his gracefulness, as they spun in a circle, Sherlock shifting in his arms, first in an arabesque, then a backbend, then tracing a ring across the floor with his toe. Mycroft lifted him, wrapping him around his shoulders and swinging him over his chest before setting him down on the floor and making a run of rapid footwork that Sherlock matched in speed and complexity, seemingly without effort.

Mycroft lifted him again, one handed before dropping him down, head inverted and toes held high. He felt a stab of pride when the usually reserved British crowd applauded. He rotated him like a wheel to land on his feet and they were off striding toward the other end of the stage.

The move had been Sherlock's idea, first practiced at the tailor shop as they rushed to get costumes fitted for the performance. The tailor had assured them that his suit could take any dance step, and then Sherlock had done that, resulting in a stitched seam and two discreetly hidden strips of velcro.

Mycroft kicked up a leg and then flourished his foot around his brother's leg proving that he still had the skill. He smirked at the young girl in the blue dress who stood in the wings mouth open wide.

"Who is that with Sherlock?" She had asked when he had showed up to practice that afternoon. A girl in a pink dress had responded with, "You don't know? That's Mycroft Holmes, two time youth national champion." She hadn't seemed very impressed then, but now she leaned out past the curtain, risking getting caught in the edge of the spotlight as she strained to see Sherlock leap over his knee as he lunged dramatically on the edge of the stage.

They dropped down into parallel lunges, their feet sliding away from each other silently across the wooden stage floor. Then he jerked them back to standing before slowly tugging Sherlock's arms up to shoulder height. Sherlock resisted, the push and pull of their muscles adding a bit of tension to the dance. And tension was needed, a tango was a seduction after all, of the audience if not always the dancers. 

In a good tango, the audience is drawn into the drama of the dance waiting for one of the partners to surrender. Mycroft smiled with his eyes knowing that it would not be he. Sherlock surrendered to him then, slackening his arms and bending backwards. Mycroft lunged forward, grabbing Sherlock's waist to stop his fall before his head hit the floor. He had fallen back, eyes closed, trusting his brother to catch him. He had surrendered totally, and yet his surrender was not due to weakness. It was proof instead that he also lead, for when he fell, Mycroft was compelled to catch him. His backward steps demanded that Mycroft follow even as he bent in his arms.

Sherlock stood on his toes, and Mycroft lunged forward, encircling him with his arms. As the music rose in pitch, Mycroft lifted him above his head, dropping him down into a spin that went on and on ending with a toss that had Sherlock sliding across the floor in a split as the music wailed. Sherlock put his arms out to his side and arched his back so far that the top of his head almost touched his leg. Mycroft was frozen in a deep lunge, arms outstretched as he tried to hide his labored breathing. He wasn't as young as he used to be. The music ended, and there was a moment of silence. Then the crowd exploded with applause, and they were on their feet clapping and crying out.

Mycroft went to Sherlock and lifted him from the floor. They walked together to take their bows. He could see his old dance teacher, Mrs Paloma, in the crowd. She lived for the dance and never understood how anyone could leave it for something as boring and unimportant as Government Service. How could he explain to her that politics was as elaborate a dance as any other, requiring expert footwork and a flair for the dramatic. She bowed her head in approval and he bowed back respectfully before heading off into the wings. As he passed, a young woman in a red dress frowned saying to her partner, "They expect us to go out after that?" He smiled and walked by.

Later, at the reception following the performance, One person after another came forward to compliment them and ask them if they had any plans to compete.

"No plans," he said for the tenth time that evening. "This was a one time event."

Sherlock let him do the talking, looking distractedly over his shoulder at a group of unsavory looking young gentlemen who stood in a group behind them. They must be the students that he had hoped to impress. Sherlock walked toward them eliciting a sigh from Mycroft. It never paid to appease bullies.

There was a tap on his shoulder and he turned, preparing to make his excuses again when he found himself face to face with the Permanent Undersecretary of the Foreign Office!

"Sir!" he exclaimed suddenly embarrassed at the gaudiness of his dress.

"Mycroft Holmes, isn't it? Little did I know when I was roped into attending my granddaughter's dance recital that I would see _you_ on the stage. That was an impressive display. You are an excellent dancer."

"Thank you, Sir."

"Not the sort of thing one learns from one's official file."

"Yes sir, It is, however in the file, Sir."

"Is it? Well, witnessing it first hand is much more impressive than just reading about it. Good Show, young man!"

"Thank you, Sir."

"In fact, it put me in mind of a problem that I think that you might be able to help me solve."

"Sir?"

"Yes, you," he said waving a finger toward Mycroft's chest. "I believe that you will be just the man for the job. Certainly. To think that one of our own up and comers has such a skill." He handed a card to Mycroft. "Be at my office at ten o'clock sharp Monday morning and we'll talk."

"Yes, Mr. Secretary. I shall be there."

"Then good evening, Mr Holmes."

"Good Evening, Sir."

Mycroft stood even straighter, if that were possible and stared at the card in his hand before placing it carefully into his breast pocket.

Sherlock came up beside him and asked in a low voice. "What was that? Was that man trying to pull you?"

"Pull me? That was the Permanent Undersecretary of Foreign Affairs. He was NOT trying to pull me."

"Who?" Sherlock asked, and Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Don't tell me you don't know your cabinet offices. What does that overpaid school teach you?"

"Politics is boring."

Mycroft's mouth fell open in shock, and he was just about to launch into a tirade when Mother arrived and pinched their cheeks saying, "Oh, I am so very proud of my boys!" In a loud voice, that mortified them both.

.

He was dressed much more conservatively in a dark grey three-piece when he stepped into the Secretary's office at precisely ten Monday morning. He looked around at the maple-wood desk, the golden pen case, and the antique globe which was sure to hold a bottle of scotch or two before sitting in an upholstered leather chair facing the man who was considered to be one of the few people really running the country.

"I've been hearing good things about you, Mr. Holmes," the Undersecretary said.

"You have?"

"Indeed I have. A wonderkind, I.Q. points through the roof, but unlike many, you are personable and able to carry yourself with dignity in social situations. Oh yes, do not doubt that your future is being discussed at the very highest levels."

"I am very pleased to hear it," Mycroft said pointedly not smiling.

"We, in the service, reward merit. It doesn't always appear so, but it is important to us that positions of power are managed by competent men."

"Yes sir."

"And so I ask you, Mycroft Holmes. Where do you see yourself in ten years?"

"Well, If I may be frank sir, in ten years I would like to hold a position that is much more central than my current position to the workings of the government. I find, inefficiencies in our policies that are worrying, and I believe that we would benefit from having someone looking at the big picture, so to speak. A kind of analyst, or consultant for the whole government who gets information from multiple sources and is able to coordinate it and offer measured advice in a timely manner. I don't know if such a position exists, but if not, I would like to create it. And I believe that I have certain skills that would make me ideal for the job."

"An analyst?"

"Yes."

"For the entire government?"

"Yes. A resource for the ministry who can speak in an informed way on all projects."

"Well, I must say that I am surprised. I had thought that you would say that you wanted _my_ job. I didn't think that you would mention something even more ambitious. Even so, I might be in a position to help you reach your aim."

"Truly?"

"Yes, but I would need something from you in return."

"Of course you would. How may I help you, Mr. Secretary?"

Tell me, Mycroft, what do you know about Venezuela?"

"Venezuela? Not much I'm afraid. It is a Latin American country. Capital Caracas. Tropical climate. Located in Northern South America. Developing Nation status. Poverty level 50%. 96% Roman Catholic. Industries include petroleum, forestry and mining of precious metals including gold and diamonds. I believe you hold some interest in Venezuelan oil futures. Do you not? It must be causing you some distress considering the country has very recently transitioned from a capitalist to a socialist economy. This has also greatly worried our North American allies. The new president there is, I believe, Hugo Chávez?"

"Indeed, If that is something that you know little about, I'd like to hear you speak on a subject that you do know. Impressive!"

"The new government is apparently committed to reducing poverty. From what I hear, the people are enthusiastic about the change."

"They are _now_ , but new regimes are fraught with danger. There is no telling what might happen."

"Then, if I might ask. What do you want of me?"

"I'd like you to go there. Get an idea of the place. Its stability. Listen to the elite and see if they are behind this new populist government."

"The elite? And how am I to meet the Venezuelan elite"

"There is a party. A social event for the rich and richer in the area. Everyone will be there. It is hosted by a man called Juan Baptiste Carillo, very rich, very influential. I want you to get invited to his party and use your talents at gathering and condensing information to give us an accurate picture of what is happening and what is likely to happen to the country."

"So how does my dancing come into the picture? You said that I was just the man."

"Excellent deduction, Mr Holmes. There is a contest in Latin Dance held every year in Caracas. It has been postponed, due to recent conflicts, but word is that it will be held next month. The winners of the competition are always invited to perform."

"You want me to enter a dance competition and win it? I am afraid that I can't guarantee that. It has been several years since I have competed."

"No, you don't need to win. There is a British couple who have been invited to perform some demonstration dances at the event. I am sure that they can be persuaded to let you go in their place."

"So you wish me to...what? Perform and be so good that he will invite me to his party?"

"Don't underestimate your talents, Mycroft. From what I have seen, your skill is such that he couldn't help but want to have you perform. So, are you ready to advance in the ministry, or not?"

Mycroft sat up straighter, puffing out his chest. "Yes. I am ready. I will go, but I will need some time to find a dance partner."

"Who did you dance with at the performance?"

"Oh, that was my little brother, Sherlock."

"He was excellent. Take him."

"But sir, he's a minor. I don't believe that my parents would want me to take him into a country that was so recently in conflict."

"Then I rely on your skills at persuasion to convince them."

"But sir..."

"Good Day, Mycroft," The minister said standing.

Mycroft leaped to his feet. He considered objecting again, but one look at the minister convinced him that the argument was over. He nodded his head.

"Good day, Mr Secretary," he said, and left without another word.


	2. A family Party

In the wake of his assignment, Mycroft Holmes dug into the records about Venezuela and found that until recently it had been a dictatorship. The data about the current state of the government had gaping holes. He ordered them in his mind, laying them out on his thought table hoping to see a pattern, but the gaps were too large. No wonder he was being sent to investigate.

The worrisome thing was not that he was going there, but that he was taking his little brother with him into an unknown and possibly dangerous situation. They didn't think that any harm would come to them, but if they did disappear on their visit, they would not be the first.

It was the weekend of Sherlock's Birthday party. When Mother tried her best to shower Sherlock with enough attention to make up for the way that she ignored him the rest of the year.

She stood before him in a dress as yellow as the icing on his cake and said, "Come now, Sherlock. Blow out the candles. Then we can all have a slice of cake."

"But Mother, I told you that I wasn't hungry."

"You'll eat a slice. You're thin as a rake. Besides, it's lemon cake, your favorite."

"Lemon cake is MYCROFT's favorite."

"Yes, it is my favorite, so hurry up and blow out the candles so that I can have a slice."

"But wait," Father said. "We haven't sung to him yet. All together now. _For he's a jolly good fellow!_ ..." Mother joined in, but Mycroft simply stared as they continued, " _For he's a jolly good fellow, For he's a jolly good fellow, that nobody can deny_."

Sherlock crossed his arms, glaring back at Mycroft and then blowing out the candles as if it were a tiresome chore. Mother blew a party horn.

"Good. Now cut the cake," she said.

"Let Mycroft cut it. He's obviously dying to have a bite."

"I will cut it," Mycroft said taking the knife and cutting a slice for Sherlock and himself. "Because you are too rude to appreciate your mother's commitment in preparing it for you."

"Commitment in picking it up from the store you mean."

"Boys. No fighting at the table."

"Then, might I be excused to fight in the living room?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"No. Now eat your cake," Mother said sternly.

"There, there, Dear. Maybe he just wants to go play his new violin." Father said smiling, "You should let him do what he wants. It is his birthday after all."

"Is it too much for me to ask that the family spend a little time together on Sherlock's birthday?"

"Because we spend _so_ much time together the rest of the year?" Sherlock said.

Mother frowned. "None of that cheek. Eat that cake and then off you go."

"I have something that I want to say," Mycroft interjects.

"Oh?" Father clapped. "Are you bringing someone home to visit?"

"Bringing someone home?" Mother said turning a scornful face to Father. "Why on Earth would he do that. He must think of his career first."

"No, I'm not bringing anyone home. It's about me and Sherlock."

"Sherlock and I?" Mother said.

"Why am I in this conversation?" Sherlock asked.

"We've been invited to dance at an international dance competition."

"A dance competition?" Mother asked surprised. "You're going to start dancing again?"

"No. It's just a demonstration."

"Where?" Sherlock asked, getting to the heart of the problem, as always.

Mycroft took in a breath. "Caracas, Venezuela."

"Where's that?"

"It's in South America, Mother." Sherlock said with a sigh.

"Well that sounds fun!" Father said. "Shall we all go?"

"NO!" Sherlock and Mycroft said together.

"Hmmm... I don't know." Mother said. "Sherlock does have school."

"But it's sure to be educational." Father said. "And with Mycroft around, what could go wrong?"

"I suppose you're right." Mother said. "But I don't want Sherlock to get behind in his studies again. Sherlock, eat your cake."

"Give it to Mycroft. He clearly wants it. He practically inhaled his own."

"I'm only showing a healthy respect for Mother's baking."

"What baking? She only needed to thaw it."

"Sherlock!" Mother said. Sherlock looked up at her and took one bite of the cake before shoving the plate at his brother.

"Satisfied?" he said, and then rushed out of the kitchen.

Mycroft finished his second slice and then wiped his mouth primly. Mother patted Mycroft on the stomach. "Well, you'd better start watching your figure if you're going back to dancing. Can't have a fat Valentino."

Mycroft frowned. "Well then, if you will inform the school of the absence. I'll make the arrangements for the trip. Good bye, Mother, Father."

"You're not leaving yet, are you?" Father asked as Mycroft walked out of the kitchen. 

  


He passed through the living room and into the hall where Sherlock captured his arm pulling him aside. Picking up their coats with one hand, Sherlock pulled Mycroft out of the front door.

When they were a safe distance away from the house. Sherlock handed his brother his coat. He put his on and then leaned against the front gate.

"What is all this about, Mycroft? Why are we really going out of the country?"

Mycroft put on his coat, a resigned look on his face."I told you, we're going to dance."

"Now tell me the real reason, or I'll tell Mother what you were doing in Soho last weekend."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me."

Mycroft pulled out a cigarette and lit it, taking a long puff while Sherlock watched with narrowed eyes.

"I didn't know you smoked."

"I don't."

"Give me one."

"Sod off!"

"I'll tell Mother."

"Do you want to know, or don't you?"

Sherlock closed his mouth and glared. Even so, he couldn't hide his obvious excitement.

"I've been sent on a fact-finding mission."

"You mean you'll be spying?"

"I wouldn't go so far as to call it spying."

"Then what would you call it?"

"Information gathering."

"And how is that different from spying?"

"The important point is that this is the first overseas job that I have been given since being employed at the ministry. Finally, I have a chance to show what I can do."

"So that's what you want? To become a spy? Does that mean that I'll be spy too? Will I get to wear an eye-patch and dress in black?."

"We aren't playing pirates!"

"Yes, but will I get to spy?"

"All you will be doing is dancing."

"Boring!"

"Dancing, and staying out of trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"ANY kind of trouble."

"But can I wear black?"

"I can't see why not. We will need costumes."

"Marvelous! Who are we going to be spying on?"

" _We_ are not..."

The door opened then and mother looked out. Mycroft sucked in the smoke and turned toward the door, hiding the cigarette behind his back. "So that's where you boys have got to. Sherlock, your father wants you to come and play your new violin. Mycroft? Are you smoking?"

"No!" Mycroft cried.

"Yes," Sherlock said.

Mother glared at him harshly before walking back into the house.

Mycroft turned and kept smoking. "Tattle-tale."

"Mother-hen," Sherlock countered.

Then Mycroft ground the cigarette under heel, and they walked back inside.


	3. On account of Rain

The night before they were to go, Sherlock came up to Mycroft's flat in London to stay the night. He ran through the flat in striped pajamas and an old blue T-shirt looking through all of Mycroft's things and tsking at the flat's small size only to slide to a stop at the sight of Mycroft combing black dye through his hair.

"Mycroft, what are you doing?"

"Can't you tell? I am dying my hair black."

Sherlock stood very still watching him before asking, "Why exactly?"

"Because, Sherlock, we are going into a country where to be a ginger is extremely rare. I don't want to stand out."

Sherlock considered this for a moment. "You're doing this so as not to 'stand out'? Have you seen yourself? There is no crowd, other than those cronies from that club of yours, where you wouldn't 'stand out', Mycroft. You are a being unto yourself."

"All the more reason not to make it easy for those who might wish to track us." He put down the comb and examined himself.

"Perhaps I should do the eyebrows as well." He turned to Sherlock. "What do you think?"

"I think you look ridiculous."

Mycroft picked up a bar of soap and threw it at him. He missed.

.

On the flight, the Caribbean sea shining turquoise blue below them, Sherlock returned from the bathroom wearing a black silk shirt and black trousers.

"Good God, Sherlock. Can you button at least one or two of the buttons on that shirt. People are staring."

"It's a costume, Mycroft. People are supposed to stare at it. And why exactly are we putting on our costumes while we're still on the plane?"

"Because of that," he said pointing out of the window. Sherlock leaned over to glance at the white clouds drifting past below them.

"What about that? It's the sky."

Mycroft sighed. "We were heading steadily toward our destination, but since then we have started to circle in a holding pattern. An out of season tropical storm has delayed flights in the region. Although the storm has dissipated, the backlog of flights has not, thus our delay."

"So?"

"Use your brain, Sherlock. The delay will mean that we will not be able to go to our hotel room before our scheduled arrival at the auditorium, thus our changing now. We will go directly there and get our first dance out of the way giving me more time to search for the dance scouts. There are three or four people who have been known to invite dancers to the party. I will identify them. Then we will dazzle them."

"You mean I will dazzle them."

"If you insist. You will dazzle them, and then I will be able to complete my mission. You should do some stretches."

"In here? There's no room."

"Sherlock."

"Alright." Sherlock said pulling his knees up into his chair. He lifted one leg and then the other holding himself in a jacknife on the seat as he flexed first one foot and then the other. A bespoke leather shoe fell off his foot and landed in the seat behind him. He leaned around the seat to look at a shocked older woman who was no doubt wondering what he was doing that would require holding his feet in the air. He winked at her, holding out his hand to take back his shoe before sitting back in his seat with a smirk on his face.

.

When they left the airport, the heat and humidity crashed into them like a wave. They got into a taxi, and Mycroft immediately took off his coat revealing his high-collared, sleeveless, black waistcoat. He called out the location to the driver and they sailed through the streets driving past rows and rows of palm trees. Information flooded in with every glance, from the brown-skinned people to the traffic lights and Spanish-language signs. The only evidence of the transition that he spotted at first glance was a yellow, blue, and red flag painted onto the wall in an alley.

There were green hills above the city with winding roads leading up them. They drove past buildings of stone, brick, glass and steel. And even though it was definitely urban, it felt so much different than London. Even the color of the sky was different.

Mycroft looked over at Sherlock's shirt which was open in a V that reached to his navel and he sighed. "Please button up your shirt."

"It's thirty-four degrees outside!"

"I assume that the arena will have some form of air conditioning."

Sherlock glared at him and then looked out of the window without buttoning his shirt.

As they approached the arena, there was less traffic, not more. Mycroft began to get nervous as they turned into the parking area to find a marked absence of cars.

"Espera un momento, porfavor" he said as he climbed out of the taxi to walk toward the door. The doors were chained shut, and there were signs on them. Perhaps they had got the time wrong, or the event had been moved to another location. He rushed forward needing to know what was happening. Sherlock followed behind.

When he arrived at the doors, Mycroft stood still in shock. The hastily scrawled sign read…

**El Concurso se ha cancelado.**

There was more writing below, but Mycroft could not get past that last word... _Cancelado_. Canceled! How could the event be canceled?

"It says that the roof collapsed due to the rain," Sherlock read. "So, what do we do now?"

Mycroft stared open-mouthed at the sign unsure what to say. He had made countless plans for what to do once the competition had begun. He had plans for what to say to get invited to Carillo's house, and what to do once they were there. He had scouted out several escape routes, some easy, and some difficult, in case things got dangerous once they were there, but every plan that he had made required the competition to occur, and for he and Sherlock to dance.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked. "What should we do now?"

"I don't know," Mycroft said, defeat causing his voice to shake. "I honestly don't know what to do."

"Don't worry, Mycroft." Sherlock said grabbing his arm and pulling him back to the taxi, "I'll handle it this time."

Sherlock shoved Mycroft back into the taxi and climbed in after him.

"¿A dónde vas?" asked the driver.

"Llevarnos dónde se venden whisky," Sherlock said looking over at Mycroft who had leaned back in his chair, one arm crossed over his chest. His other hand against his forehead.

"Si!" the driver said, and they sped off in search of a bar.


	4. Dancing in the Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, and indeed this entire story is based on this tango (http://youtu.be/-irzqZ5DiPQ).

Mycroft and Sherlock sat in a restaurant, the kind with umbrella covered tables out front, and a door that stayed open even in the rain. It was raining now. A light, warm rain that was completely unlike the ones in London. Mycroft ordered a scotch and nursed it, swirling the glass with one hand, as he glared outside at the people passing by. Sherlock tried to order whisky for himself, but Mycroft intercepted it and ordered him a Coca cola instead. If he was annoyed, he recovered quickly, enjoying the spectacle of seeing so many new and different people.

“This is a disaster,” Mycroft said. “My first important assignment, and it's a total disaster.”

“Oh come now, Mycroft. We've only just arrived. You'll think of something.” Sherlock said before downing most of his drink in one go.

Mycroft swirled the glass again. “Do you suppose that they serve tea in this place? It says that it's a restaurant. How pathetic, to be homesick the first day in a new country. It's hopeless.”

Sherlock stared intensely at a family sitting in the corner of the restaurant. “That woman's child was not fathered by her husband.”

Mycroft turned and looked at them. “Obviously not with that prominent widow's peak.” He looked around the place. “The bartender, he's the father.”

Sherlock turned and stared at him. “You think so? Oh. Now I see. It's not just the widow's peak which is a dominant trait. It's also the eyes, and the red pigment in his hair. It's obvious. Then again, for all we know, they could have been married to each other before?”

“Married? Of course not, Sherlock. Just look at his hair! He's a serial philanderer. Frequent sexual intercourse raises dihydrotesterone levels and increases onset of male-pattered baldness.” Mycroft stared at the man who smiled back at him. “And he's bisexual.” Mycroft said pointedly turning away to look out the window. Then he visibly jumped. “My God!”

“What is it?”

“That's Emilia Isabella Carillo, daughter of Juan Carillo. She's one of the people on my list.”

“Where?”

“She's on that balcony overlooking the street. If only I could get up there… but it's hopeless. That's not a restaurant. She must be at a private residence. We could never reach her. Besides, how would we introduce ourselves. 'Hello, we came from Britain to pole you on your political views.' This is worse than if I had never seen her.”

“But if she's right there, maybe she can see us.”

“See us? See us do what?”

“Dance.”

“Dance? Where?”

“In the street, like we did before. If we dance in front of the restaurant, she's sure to see us and ask us to the party.”

“But, we can't just dance in the street. It's raining. We'll ruin our shoes.”

“Then take them off!”

“There's no music.”

“There's a stereo behind the bar.”

“ Sherlock, you can't possibly be serious.”

“Do you want to succeed in this mission of yours and go back victorious so that you can begin your megalomaniac bid to take over the British Government, or do you want to end your days in a little office doing nothing but reflecting on what a failure your life has become because you didn't listen to your little brother when he was right? Take off your shoes! I'm going to talk to the barman.”

Sherlock rose to his feet, and walked toward the bar. 

Mycroft stared up at the woman on the balcony again. She was sitting with another woman. Both of them blond with a plethora of jewelry at their wrists and neck. An overhanging roof protected their table from the rain where they seemed to be enjoying a red wine. He slowly, carefully, slipped off his shoes and socks, placing them against the wall.

Then the music changed to a tango beat. Sherlock came by and tossed his own shoes under the table before pulling Mycroft to the door. He felt self-conscious as he walked outside, pointedly not looking up. It was now or never.

Mycroft put a hand on Sherlock's waist and began to dance barefoot through the wet streets. He didn't bother to hold back, launching into his footwork and a few high kicks on the first pass. He wanted to be noticed after all.

The people in the street turned toward them and stared. They began crying out and clapping which must surely draw her attention. Now they had to dazzle her. Sherlock lifted his knee, swirling his foot in a figure eight across the ground. Then Mycroft gestured for a lift. Sherlock stepped into position and Mycroft lifted him. He lay on his back, toes pointed, his head and shoulders arched, one knee lifted for balance. Mycroft took a moment to secure his footing on the wet pavement before walking in a circle with Sherlock held on one arm over his head. The spectators screamed.

He lowered Sherlock onto his shoulder and began a spin. Sherlock pointed his toe out in front of them as they whirled around, before turning his body and wrapping a knee around Mycroft's hips. His back leg pointed as Mycroft lowered him to the pavement before kicking his own feet around in a flourish.

Sherlock was drenched, his chest was streaked with water droplets, his hair, plastered to his face. Their clothes were becoming increasingly more heavy, and Mycroft had to consciously ignore his ingrained desire to get out of the rain.The shower did nothing to alleviate the heat. Mycroft found himself sweating, but as the crowd began to cheer again his natural showmanship flared and he whirled Sherlock around him, like a bullfighter flourishes his cape.

It was not their best show. Not with their hair plastered to their heads, feet slipping on the wet pavement, and the tinny sound of accordion music piping through the rain drenched street, but as he lifted Sherlock again in the air to the sound of cheers, he could see Isabella Carillo recording them with her phone. He swung Sherlock around him a few times before flinging him into a dramatic dip. The leg lift. The lunge, Another dip, leg held high leading to another bout of footwork. He would NOT miss this chance. As overly dramatic as Sherlock's speech had been, it had been effective. He could all too easily see himself wasting away in obscurity in a dingy little London office. 

They kicked their legs together striding across the ground, before he lowered Sherlock into a slow dip. They teased the audience with slow, sensual movements while he whispered to Sherlock what they would do next. They strode chest to chest down the street. Sherlock's toe kicking up water as they pranced. The audience was with them now, so when he lifted Sherlock into another spin, they immediately began to cheer. The spin went on and on with Sherlock first holding back one leg, then bending himself around Mycroft's waist, before turning and wrapping his bent knee around Mycroft's legs to land gracefully on his feet. Then Mycroft showily flourished his leg, leading the dance again as they tangoed across the ground in long, coordinated strides that splashed water as they went.

Then Sherlock jumped into his arms. He flung him over his shoulder in a showstopper move that had the crowd screaming as Sherlock wrapped around him like a snake, only to land gently on his feet flourishing his legs playfully in a bout of flawless footwork. Mycroft swung him around left and then right before lowering him into a split. The cheers rose again, and people came out of the restaurant to clap. He pulled Sherlock up, and they bowed to the crowd. Mycroft couldn't help smiling as he glanced Isabella Carillo on her feet animatedly talking to her friend. 

Sherlock turned to him then and said, “My crotch is wet.” Mycroft stifled a laugh.

They returned to their seats in the restaurant completely soaked, but people patted them on the back as they passed, and the manager brought them out a plate of chicken without their ordering it. Mycroft was simply glad that no one had stolen their bags.

After their meal which was a bit spicy for Mycroft's tastes, he pointedly asked the bartender the location of a good hotel. They took a taxi there and changed out of their wet clothes.

It was the following morning when the summons came. They met Srta. Carillo in the lobby. She was wearing a white jacket over a patterned dress and gold Gucci shoes. She went on and on about how much she had loved their dancing before handing them an invitation on which she had written their required arrival date and time. They would be paid to perform, and they were invited to stay the night afterward.

A man was waiting for her at the door. Her driver? bodyguard? lover, or perhaps all three? That didn't matter now. What did matter was that they were in, and it was only a matter of time before this mission was completed and he could go back to the real work of becoming absolutely indispensable to the British Government.


	5. The Carillo mansion

 

The Carillo mansion was a circular structure of white concrete and glass located on a peninsula jutting into the sea. It rose up majestic on a white rock far above the raging waves. The entrance was a very long boardwalk that began on a circular drive on a hill above a cliff. They stepped out of the taxi, Sherlock carrying their costume bag over his shoulder, and walked past two tall men with guns to meet another man in a white uniform who looked closely at their invitation before letting them pass.

Mycroft strode across the bridge, realizing how very defensible it made the place. Sherlock stared down at the rocks below as if he might one day want to jump. Currently they could see the foundations of the bridge on the ground beneath them, but in high tide, the land must disappear completely making the rock seem to be an island.

It took them an entire five minutes to walk the length of the bridge which ended on a broad concrete patio with a very tall doorway bordered by chandeliers and cut glass. The door opened as they approached, and a woman in a simple blue dress showed them to their room.

It was a small room On the side of the building with two beds and a bath. The bedspreads were a dark red satin, the furniture plain, but Mycroft was overjoyed to find that the glass door opened onto a balcony overlooking the sea.

The railing was made of black metal bent in fanciful designs. When he leaned against it, he could just see the edge of the bridge. Below them, and a bit toward the mainland, was a boat dock where a pair of yachts were already docked.

"That must be how they normally arrive." Mycroft said. "I can't believe that the Carillos walk that bridge every time they want to come or go. This room is excellent. I can see everyone who arrives from here."

Mycroft walked back inside then and began to unpack his things. "I'll shower first. You get some rest while we have a chance."

"But I thought that you said that we were staying the night?"

"You don't expect me to sleep while I am here, do you. I have twenty four hours to find out everything that I can about this country's political structure and intrigue. I'm not going to sleep."

"Then I won't either, Mycroft."

"Call me Mike!"

"But you hate being called Mike."

"I know, but I wanted to give us names that it would be easy for you to keep track of. We are Mike and Bill Jones."

"There is nothing wrong with my memory, _Mike_ , or my ability to keep track of a story. I can help."

"The best thing that you can do to help is to stay out of trouble."

Sherlock sighed heavily and fell back onto the bed. "This is so boring!"

Mycroft picked up the toiletries case and rolled his eyes. "Only you could find a visit to a mansion in South America boring." Then he went into the bathroom and shut the door firmly behind him.

That evening, Mycroft watched from the room's balcony as the patrons arrived. Some came down the long gangway, but others came by yacht and parked at a dock below. Mycroft smoked a cigarette as he watched them.

Sherlock came over and leaned on the railing beside him. He looked down at a group of finely dressed visitors climbing off of their yacht. Then he held a hand out to his brother.

"Give me a cigarette."

"No."

"We'll look more authentic that way."

"NO!"

"Why do you insist on treating me like a child? I'm seventeen for God's sake."

"You've answered your own question," Mycroft said taking another puff.

Sherlock sighed heavily and stormed back into the room.

Mycroft held the cigarette between his lips as he peered around at the building to watch the next batch of guests wend their way across the long boardwalk bridge. A gust of wind blew the tip of the cigarette out, but Mycroft hardly noticed. He was filing away every face and every association into his mind palace. When the last of the guests had entered, there was a knock on the door. Sherlock rushed to open it. A servant dressed in blue told them that they would be expected to perform in an hour after cocktails.

Mycroft went into the bathroom then and ran a comb through his hair. The wind had upset it. He set his signature curl with a bit of gel and a puff of hairspray.

"You vain poof," Sherlock said. "Will an hour be enough, do you think?"

"Watch your language, Sherlock."

"Bill!" Sherlock said. "Will you be able to keep track of the names? Should I write them on your sleeve perhaps?"

"Ha, Ha, very funny. Now it's time for you."

"I can comb my own hair, _Mike._ "

"That's debatable, but that isn't what needs doing. Come stand in the light." Mycroft pulled out a small black pencil.

"What is that?" Sherlock asked. "Is that make up?"

"It is an eyeliner pencil."

"I'm a boy! I don't need makeup."

"This is a tango. You should appear sultry. I'm just drawing attention to your eyes."

"I don't see you putting on any makeup."

"That's because I don't need to appear sultry."

"I won't..."

"Sherlock, we are not playing here. We are on an island in the sea hundreds of miles from home, and any minute the East wind can blow us away. You need to stay in character. Stay still and let me put this on."

Sherlock stilled at that, and Mycroft drew a black line under his eye and made dark smudges on the upper eyelid to make him appear more sultry. Then he put the eyeliner pencil in Sherlock's breast pocket. "Feel free to add more whenever you need it."

Sherlock stuck out his tongue, and Mycroft laughed. Then there was another knock on the door, and they left for the performance.

For the dance, Mycroft wore the same tailored suit that he had worn at the dance recital. This time, however, his tie was turquoise blue. At his side, he carried an umbrella, an idea that had come to him after their dance in the rain. He twirled it around, tapping the tip on the floor as the music began. The lights dimmed except for the floor where he stood. He looked out into the dark room where men and women sat at tables. The lady's jewels shimmering around him as his eyes trailed over the assembled patrons as if looking for someone.

Sherlock entered behind him wearing white shoes white trousers with a navy blue blazer. His turquoise blue shirt buttoned low to show his neck. He looked like he had just stepped off of a yacht. Despite his grooming claims, his hair looked wind swept. It seemed appropriate. Mycroft turned toward him, and smiled.

Sherlock walked toward Mycroft and then right past him, as if he hadn't noticed him. Mycroft turned then, and hooked his wrist with the umbrella, pulling him over and grabbing his waist before tossing the umbrella behind him. He pulled Sherlock up against his side, and Sherlock kicked one leg high into the air. Then when he landed, he pulled him to his chest, and they lunged together side by side, then Sherlock made a quick turn and fell straight, like a board, Mycroft catching him with one hand on the back of his neck.

He lifted Sherlock to his feet then and held out a hand. Sherlock took it and they stood in position for three still heartbeats before striding together across the floor in perfect step.

The dance was sharp and sensual. They flowed across the floor like the waves across the surface of the Caribbean sea. They had practiced this dance so many times, Mycroft hardly had to spare a thought to perform it. He knew that Sherlock would do enough flares and flourishes to wow everyone in the audience, so he put the performance in the back of his mind as he watched the crowd around him.

Many of the faces he recognized, and those he didn't, he filed away for later. He watched the exits noticing the discreetly placed guards. Did they really believe that they would be attacked? Perhaps they did? He saw old money, the young and hungry, businessmen, and the hanger's on. His mind spun with calculations of commodities, and military connections, neurons flashing in his brain, even as his legs flew across the floor.

He whipped his foot out flinging through his brother's legs and over them before grabbing him up in a spin that started high and ended with him sliding to the ground in a split. The applause rose then, bringing him out of his meditative state. The dance had almost ended too soon, almost. As it was, he now had in his brain a map of the world where tiny industry symbols were connected by shining lines to the people in this very room.

He raised his hand and bowed planning to find his way back to his room to meditate further, but he was captured as he left the dance floor by Miss Carillo who grabbed his arm squeezing his triceps and smiling. Her dress was pale as champagne, and almost as low cut as Sherlock's rain costume had been. She batted her artificial lashes at him and led him out of the room, as the music started up and the crowd rose from their chairs to dance.

Mycroft was led through a gilded white door and down a hallway to an office lined with books. He looked around the room, images of the tango were painted on the walls. The door opened again, and Juan Carillo entered. He was a tall man with silver hair and a tanned face. He smiled at Mycroft and held out his hand. Mycroft shook it.

"Mycroft Holmes, I am so very pleased to meet you."

Mycroft tried, but could not completely hide his shock.

"Oh, do not think that it is anything that you have done that has 'blown your cover' as I think it is said. I understand that you must have been sent here to check up on things by your government. A very wise precaution."

"Then how?"

"You wonder how I was able to discover your name when your credentials were the very best, and you have not yet risen to a place in government where everyone knows your name? Yes? I think that your government underestimates how big of a tango fan I am. I knew who you were the moment you did the shoulder spin. I recognized it, and you. Who could forget the rising star of British ballroom, Mycroft Holmes. The very saint of the waltz."

"You go too far."

"No, you are too modest. You were not the only one affected when you left dance. So many had hopes to see you perform as an adult. To have you snatched away from us, your fans, for a career in government service. It was devastating. No, when I saw the recording, I knew why it was you who had been sent, and so I had to invite you here. To see you dance again. It is...chévere… how do you say it? It's just grand!"

"I never knew that I had such loyal fans."

"I don't suppose that this is something that you plan to continue?"

"No."

"That is a shame, because your partner, your brother is it? He is..." Sr. Carillo kissed the tips of his fingers and spread them in the air. "He is beautiful. A dancer of rare feeling and skill. You look well together. It shows, so well, your trust of each other. Your love."

"Love? He is my brother."

"Exactly! The tango, it is not a dance that anyone can do well. Even those with skill, without love, the tango has no beat, has no heart! But those who have love, it makes a woman become more of a woman. It makes a man want to be a man. You are very manly when you dance, Mr. Holmes. You show great love in your movements, even more than in competition. I have the tapes of all of the competitions, and you were very fine, but never have I seen love as you have shown me today. I feel honored."

"I see. Well then, Sr Carillo. Now that you know who I am, what do you plan to do?"

"I plan to help you, of course. Great Britain has many interests in this country. The new government has put these assets under threat. We have other assets as well, so we are not quite as impoverished as we could have been from the government seizure of the oil, but we have been affected by it.

"This idea of giving to the poor. It is misguided. The world is full of those who have and those who have not. That is how it will always be, there is no need to change it. The poor know nothing of investing. They will waste it all. Why take away from us the wealth that is our right? You understand. You have a queen. You know that some people are simply destined to rule."

"I see. So how exactly can you help me?"

"You are wondering about the government, whether it is stable. It is not. We have a plan. I will not give you details, it may take a month or even a year to implement, but we are gathering forces to reclaim our position in the government. When we do, then you can be sure that your continued support of our community will be rewarded."

"That seems good. I have enjoyed our chat, but I think that I must check on my brother."

"Ah, the chiquito. Of course, but please have a meal with me, tomorrow. We can talk more. And I would love to see you waltz with my daughter. She would look well in your arms, I think. Anyway, I am so pleased to have finally met you face to face. Have a good evening, Mr Holmes."

"Senior Carrillo." Mycroft said with a handshake before walking out through the door.

As soon as he was out of the hallway, Mycroft picked up his steps. The first thing to do when one's cover was blown was to retreat. He opened the door to their room, but Sherlock was not there. He stepped out on the balcony and even looked under the bed before going back out into the ballroom. He opened his ears, listening for any sign of him. It was then that he heard someone gossiping and his blood turned chill.

"You'd better keep an eye on that young man that you brought with you or El general will snatch him up as a plaything."

"Oh no need to worry. He must certainly be busy. I saw him going up to his room with a chiquito."

"He is too brazen. He should be stopped."

"I keep a close eye on my young men whenever he is around."

Mycroft grabbed the arm of a waiter who was carrying drinks on a tray. "Where is the general's room?" he asked, then he rushed out of the party and up the stairs.


	6. Piranha

Mycroft ran up the grand staircase, his heart racing more than was completely necessary. _Chiquito?_ They might not have meant Sherlock. Sherlock might simply be out exploring this sprawling mansion, but in his heart, Mycroft knew that if there was a dark pit of danger in this place, Sherlock was sure to have found it.

He rushed down the hallway past striped wallpaper and white doors with gilded-edged panels until he got to the area where the General's rooms were said to be. There was a row of doors. He put his ear to one door and then the next listening. A low grumble came from behind the third door, so he moved his head closer to the keyhole waiting to hear… to find if Sherlock was there.

The deep voice said, "Muy guapo."

Then a lighter voice said, "Guapo am I? I bet you say that to all the boys."

Mycroft rose to his feet then, his face flushing with anger as he tried the door. It was locked. He raised his foot and kicked it, but it held firm. Then he bent down and looked through the gap. There was no deadbolt, just a simple lock. He stepped back a few paces, then he rushed forward lifting his foot exactly between the lock and the edge of the door. It broke open and he entered the room to freeze at the display he saw before him.

The room was elegant. White walls, gilded ceiling except over the bed which was draped with folds of red velvet. The headboard was a fish tank that took up almost one entire wall. River fish swam through green reeds behind the glass which was a bit murky and cast an odd glow on the room. There was an open door on the other wall that led to a bathroom. He could glimpse the glass door of a shower, and a black marble counter on which there was a light dusting of white powder.

The bedspread was puffed white silk stitched in a diamond pattern interspersed with hearts. Mycroft had never guessed that something so monochrome could be so tasteless and gaudy. But of the three (the velvet roof, the fish tank bed, and the bedspread) it was the least offensive as it clearly matched the white trousers of the man lying across it.

El General, an older man with hair dyed black to mimic the youthful beauty he must once have had, was sitting on the bed. Beside him, splayed on his back, was a young man in white trousers and a shirt of turquoise blue that was untucked and open. The older man's tanned hand was clutching the fair skin of the boy's abdomen possessively. The dark-haired boy lay back relaxed, head on a white pillow looking over at the door with dark dilated eyes. His pale pink lips slightly ajar, a trace of white powder beneath his nose. It was Sherlock.

He lifted himself up on his shoulders and turned to the door to say, "Oh Mycroft, hello. The General, here, was just showing me his fish tank. It has piranha in it!"

Mycroft sucked in a breath. He could always trust his brother to totally underestimate the magnitude of a situation. He tried to reply, but no words came to him. Nothing in his repertoire of stock comebacks or phrases seemed to fit this situation, and his anger at the man who thought that he had a right to touch his brother in that familiar way, was threatening to cause him to descend into acts that were certainly not advisable if they were ever to leave this country intact.

Tongue-tied, he simply held out his hand. The same gesture that he used before a lift or a spin, and Sherlock came to him, scooting out from under the older man and slipping on his shoes and jacket before reaching out to Mycroft who picked him up and tossed him over his shoulder.

"Hey!" Sherlock yelled kicking his feet as Mycroft turned and walked out of the room without a word. "Let me down!" he cried as Mycroft carried him through the hall and down the stairs in a rapid march. "Mycroft, answer me!"

But Mycroft simply spread his hand holding Sherlock's thighs firmly against his chest as his other hand traced lightly down the banister. He was unable to respond to his brother, because it was taking all of his energy to avoid going back up there, picking up one of the decorative metal vases of dried roses from the hallway, and beating that man to death with it.

He stopped at the base of the stairs, looking back toward the party before turning to the entrance and walking out, past the startled woman in blue, onto the patio, and out onto the long boardwalk.

The sound of the sea grew loud, and a light breeze cooled his brow. Sherlock stopped kicking then. Perhaps being suspended above a deep chasm did that to him. Mycroft filed it away as another way to quiet his little brother as he walked silently across the bridge.

It was high tide, and the tumultuous sea was below them, waves curling in the wind and crashing against the rocks. Mycroft's mind was also turbulent, rolling with worries and what ifs. The half-open side table that might have housed a gun. It certainly must have housed other things of a more intimate nature. Of what would have happened if he had stayed to drink with Sr. Carillo, watching dance tapes while his brother was pressed down into the sheets, crying out, crying for his brother to come and save him. The look on his mother's face when they returned. The stern lift in her eyelid. That disapproving almost dangerous look they got when Mycroft had failed, again, to stop Sherlock from doing something stupid, as if he had the ability to control his little brother who was a fire-rocket flying wild from the moment he was old enough to crawl.

He sighed deeply as he approached the end of the bridge, the guards a few feet ahead of him, when he felt a tap at his waist, and Sherlock said in a quiet, calm voice, "Let me down, please. I can walk on my own."

Mycroft stopped, just before the edge of the bridge and lowered Sherlock to the ground. They stood, staring at each other for a second, without a word. Then Sherlock sneezed, and Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Wipe your nose, for God's sake," he said and pushed ahead, watching out of the corner of his eye to make sure that Sherlock was following. Sherlock took his handkerchief out of his jacket and wiped his nose with the blue silk square before stuffing it back in his pocket.

They strode past the guards toward a group of drivers playing cards. Mycroft walked up to them and demanded, "Llévennos a la ciudad!"

They stared for a moment, before one of them threw down his cards and walked toward a car. He opened the back door for them, and Mycroft let Sherlock enter first before climbing in after. He leaned forward giving the man the name of the hotel, and they pulled away, down the rough road which hugged the edge of the cliff. Sherlock looked out at the ocean. The dark sea churning below them.

"I left my good shoes back there," Sherlock said.

"Bullocks to your shoes!" Mycroft said, and Sherlock turned to stare at him. Mycroft rarely cursed.

The rest of the ride, they spent in silence, then Mycroft paid the driver, tipping him a large amount before striding through the door, across the lobby, and up the stairs to their room.


	7. nunca sentiré amor

When the door was safely closed behind them, Sherlock spoke.

"I wasn't in any danger. He offered to show me his piranha tank. You know I've always wanted to see one. And it was a way to gather information. I was helping you."

"And how exactly was the cocaine helping me?"

"I..."

Mycroft held up a hand, looking at the ceiling and they both stopped talking as someone walked heavily above them. Then Mycroft went to the bedside and turned on the radio. A woman's voice blared out a song in Spanish.

Mycroft walked closer to Sherlock then, and lowered his voice. "I told you to keep out of trouble. Why on Earth did you go off with some strange man to ..."

"He was important! He had been a general. He knew things. I thought that I could get something from him."

"Oh, you thought you'd get something from him? Like syphilis perhaps?"

"Could you possibly be more crude?"

"I think that I'm showing remarkable restraint considering the fact that you are high! Why now when you've been clean for months?"

"He offered me cocaine. I didn't want to blow our cover, and it's not like I haven't had it before. I know how much I can handle."

Mycroft barked out a laugh "You know how much you can handle? Do you know how naive you sound? How could you possibly know?"

"As you so graciously reminded me, I have done cocaine before."

"With those imbeciles from your old school back in England."

"It counts!"

"Let me enlighten you about some basic economics. England is a long way away from here."

"I noticed."

"Did you? Then you should have noticed that it takes several hops, several different stops to reach the city even when one has a valid reason to go there. The route becomes much more circuitous, and passes through many more hands if one one has illegal cargo, such as cocaine. And each person has the ability, has the very strong incentive, in fact, to cut that cocaine with other substances to make it less pure. So every one takes a little bit out, puts in something like flour or powdered milk to make it weigh the same while keeping the good stuff for themselves, so by the time it gets down to someone like your friends at school, it's watered down so much it has only a fraction of the effect.

But here, we are much closer to the source of production. Columbia is just across the border, and the general is placed highly enough that he can afford quality. You may have thought that you were only taking a sniff, but you are still under the influence. You still haven't recovered. He would have given you more, and you would have taken it, thinking that you could handle it, but there was nothing in that room that you were prepared to handle."

"What do you mean by that?"

"If you don't understand, then you are too young to be in that situation in the first place."

"You brought me on this trip because you needed a partner, but you treat me like a child. I am not a child."

"Then why are you acting like one? Getting yourself drugged and locked in a room with a man who was seconds away from molesting you…."

"We were just talking."

"Just talking? He had his hand under your clothes."

"It's just sex, Mycroft. I do know how these things go."

"Do you? What can you possibly know about sex?"

"I'm seventeen, not seven. I wouldn't have let him do anything that I didn't want to do."

"Did you see the size of him? You couldn't have stopped him from doing whatever he wanted to do with you."

"I've studied judo."

"And he's killed people. It doesn't compare."

"I could have handled him. And even if we did have sex, what would that matter? I understand how it works, and I'm old enough to..."

"You're old enough to get yourself into a dangerous situation that you don't fully understand."

"I know how to fight. I could have stopped him."

"While you're high? And what if he pulled a weapon, a knife, or a gun. He's sure to have one. He probably keeps one in reach at all times. Then what would you have done."

"I don't understand you, Mycroft. You act as if I'm some...damsel in distress. If sex were the only way out of that situation. I would have just given it to him. It's just a little casual sex."

"Have you had sex before, Sherlock?"

"No, but..."

"Then you don't understand. It's not like a hand shake. It's intimate...needlessly intimate, and although some people can do it as casually, you and I cannot. Sex isn't for people like us, Sherlock. Sex is tied to _emotions,_ hormones, instincts. It takes away from conscious thought and leads us to something much messier. It isn't something that should be casually given away to just anyone. In my measured opinion, it isn't something that we should engage in at all."

"It went fine for our parents?"

"Do you really think so? How many more books and papers do you think that mother might have written if she had not had the two of us? Why does she always encourage me to think of my career first. Because she knows her marriage was a mistake, yet even she could not avoid the consequences of it."

"You don't believe that," Sherlock said. "You can't possibly believe that Mummy regrets having us. She loves Father."

Mycroft choked out another laugh. "You're a romantic, Sherlock. You always have been. You believe that pirates had fun, and that people can find true love. Despite your sullen appearance, you have an optimistic heart. A heart that would have been damaged had that man abused you tonight. Yet you went with him willingly. Tell me that you won't ever do anything like that ever again."

"Do what? Do you want me seek your approval anytime that I plan to have sex? Don't be absurd! You can't govern my entire existence."

"You take incredible risks, Sherlock. If you had been hurt..." An image came to Mycroft of Sherlock's bloodied body in the rocks below the bridge, waves washing over him. Mycroft's face turned pale.

"I don't need your interference in my life, Mycroft. You assume too much responsibility for my actions as it is. I don't want your meddling in my affairs. I don't need you to worry about me."

"Do you think that I like worrying about you? I walked out of a possibly favorable situation because of you. Sr. Carillo had invited me to lunch. He was going to tell me all about his plans, but I've run out in the middle of the night without even taking my things? What can he possibly think, but that his revelations have shocked me. Perhaps he even believes that I might inform the authorities of his plans."

Sherlock turned to him, face filled with concern. "Go back, then," he said. "He may not have noticed your absence yet. You can leave me here, take a taxi."

"How do I know that you'll stay here? You could go somewhere else. Get another hit..."

"Trust me. I won't leave this room."

"I trusted you to stay out of trouble."

"I trusted you to be sane!"

"Lower your voice, Sherlock."

"Don't do that to me. Don't pretend like you're the reasonable one. You carried me out, Mycroft, CARRIED ME OUT of that place, throwing me over your shoulder like a cave man!"

"Someone has to prevent you from destroying yourself."

"Listen to yourself! You have a mission to accomplish. Leave me here. I promise, I won't leave this room."

"And why do you think that I should trust your promises? You promised me once that there would always be a list, but I looked around that room, and I didn't see any piece of paper..."

"Is that what's wrong? Is that why you're acting this way, because you think I lied to you?"

"Haven't you?"

"No! I haven't."

"Then where's the list?"

"I didn't have a pen."

"Feeble excuse."

"So I wrote it on my skin." Sherlock pulled open his shirt and slid it down his arm. Drawn on his left shoulder in black eyeliner pencil was the word _'Cocaine'_. Mycroft grabbed his arm and touched the word with one finger. Then he let Sherlock go, covering his eyes with one hand before droppng down to sit on the edge of the bed. "I wouldn't forget to do something that important," Sherlock said. "I made you a promise, and you should know that I don't take vows lightly."

Mycroft let out a shaky breath. Then he dropped his hand to his lap. Sherlock sat on the bed beside him. "I'm sorry, Mycroft. I know this mission was important to you. I didn't mean to ruin it. You can go back if you want to. I promise to do whatever you say."

Mycroft turned his head and looked at his brother. Their eyes were almost level. He lifted one cheek in a feeble attempt at a smile. "No need to worry. I have got all that I need to complete this assignment already. Take a shower and go to bed. We'll be leaving before sunrise."

Sherlock rose to his feet then and went into the bathroom. Mycroft turned off the radio. Not like it had mattered. Everyone must have heard them fighting. They'd probably woken people from sleep. Mycroft laughed. He had always prided himself as a person who was cool in the face of danger, but when that danger involved his brother, cool was the last word that could be used to describe him.

Love. That's what Juan Carillo had called it. He said that it was obvious to anyone when they danced. Mycroft didn't call that emotion love. He called it caring. Sometimes he called it weakness. And the fewer people who knew about his weaknesses the better.

Mycroft folded his hands and looked up into the empty room saying, " _Para el futuro, para destino, nunca sentiré amor."_

"Is that poetry?" Sherlock asked coming out of the bathroom in his robe with a towel draped over his shoulders. "I didn't know that you indulged. I thought I was supposed to be the romantic?"

"Just remembering a poem I read once."

"Oh? Who by?"

"Federico Garcia Lorca."

"Hmm. I don't know him."

"That school you attend is pitiful. Why don't you hurry and graduate so that you can go to Oxford and get a real education."

"Oxford? I'd prefer Cambridge. I like their chemistry program."

"That's enough talking for tonight. We don't want to get into another fight. I'm exhausted."

Sherlock nodded, and they dressed for bed in silence. Mycroft set the alarm and climbed beneath the sheets, facing away from Sherlock so that he couldn't see him in the dim light from the window. He didn't want Sherlock to see his face and guess that he had lied.

That line was not from a poem. It was a phrase that he himself had created, a thought that filled his mind virtually every evening when he returned home to his barren and empty flat. It was only their location that had made him say it this time in Spanish.

"For my future, for my destiny, I will never feel love."

He closed his eyes, and quickly fell asleep.

 


	8. Guyana

They left from a private airport on a tiny plane bound for Georgetown, Guyana with worn seats, and a bay full of coffee beans. A car met them when they landed, and they were whisked off to a white building with stone columns surrounded by a black metal gate, and the ubiquitous palm trees. Mycroft sat in a room for hours identifying every person he had seen at the party and giving their financial, emotional, and party affiliations as well as a fair bit of gossip.

There was a nice thick envelope for the foreign minister by the time they were done. They put it in a safe before leaving the building just as the sun was going down. The overjoyed security official insisted that he treat the two of them to dinner. He took them to a large building with a thatched roof and a large wooden dance floor, where they ate food prepared by a European chef, and drank the first tea in days that Mycroft had consider acceptable.

After the plates were cleared away, they sat around drinking a bit longer as a steel band began to play. The dark skinned official smiled broadly at Mycroft and asked, "So, did you enjoy your trip to the Americas?"

"I certainly found it interesting," Mycroft said. "But I don't think that I like fieldwork very much. Too much running about. Besides, almost everything that I gave you today was something that I could have pieced together back in London with adequate intelligence, and a bit of focused thought. The people's priorities are completely predictable."

"So what do you predict for the country? Peace and prosperity, I hope."

"Unfortunately not. Venezuela has many rocky years ahead before that finally comes to pass," Mycroft said.

"Oh, that's too bad," the man said with a frown. "Even so, we are glad that your work brought you here. We don't get so many visitors from London. Certainly not many as distinguished as yourselves. For although we are a small country, we love to dance. And we would be honored if you would grace us with a tango."

Mycroft shook his head, "I don't think that I'll be dancing anymore. I suppose that this is as good a time as any to say that I am hanging up my dancing shoes."

"Oh that is indeed very sad." The man said gesturing at the people surrounding the dance floor, "The crowd has come tonight mostly because of the rumor that you might dance for us."

The band stopped, having seen the gesture from their host. A guitarist came forward then and began to play the introduction to a tango. The official waved his hand toward them, "No, no. Mr Holmes says he is no longer wearing his dancing shoes."

"But you don't need shoes to dance," Sherlock said rising to his feet and holding out his hand. Mycroft remembered dancing barefoot in the warm rain on the streets of Venezuela. He smiled and looked up at Sherlock who nodded toward the dance floor, hand held out toward him.

Mycroft was resolved that once home he would concentrate on making his place in the government. He knew now what was needed. The level of surveillance and intelligence necessary to understand what was going on around the world. The stakes if he didn't get it right: an unstable government. Public unrest. Plots against those in power. All things that he could prevent, that he _would_ prevent by making the United Kingdom the most stable and powerful government on Earth.

Mycroft would give up his weaknesses, or at least keep them hidden, that is why he was giving up dancing. No one needed to know that Mycroft Holmes cared about things. That he had people whom he loved. _Para el futuro, para destino,_ he was leaving his heart behind. Once home he would become the cold efficient instrument of the state.

But he was not home yet. He rose to his feet and took Sherlock's hand. The crowd around them clapped, and the band struck up the music as he and Sherlock walked out together onto the dance floor one last time.


End file.
